


One More Time Around (Might Do It)

by Bittah_Wizard



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, BAMF Stiles, Eventual Smut, Future Fic, Human Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Realism, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Slow Burn, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-10-18 17:11:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17584934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bittah_Wizard/pseuds/Bittah_Wizard
Summary: “That was just another fun little quirk of the world—not only was the majority of the population juiced up on magical mojo, but pretty much everyone had a soulmate mark. Sure, a lot of people don’t actually find their soulmate—statistical probabilities are a bitch, aren’t they?—but it’s a time-honored thing. Soulmates are a blessing, the one person the universe has fated to be your perfect complement. Soulmates are to be sought after and cherished—the ending to ever story destined to be of the happily ever after variety. And Stiles doesn’t have one. He doesn’t have fangs or claws, and he certainly doesn’t have a soulmate mark anywhere on his body. He just has himself, his shop, and his cat. If you ask Stiles, that’s more than enough.”A futuristic AU where almost everybody has supernatural powers and a soulmate mark, and Stiles has neither of those things.





	1. Stiles in Wonderland

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me at 3 am and I’m literally hyped.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

 

 

Dead bodies are fucking _heavy._

Stiles isn’t quite sure how this particular dead body came to weigh so much, given that the guy didn’t actually eat—but he doesn’t think too hard about solving the mystery, given that the answer can only be found in complex biological science, which is _way_ too advanced for his high school education and fickle attention span.

_Fucking vampires._

It also doesn’t help that the body he’s carrying over his shoulder is also slippery from the steady drizzle of rain that’s currently soaking through Stiles’ patchwork jacket. Luckily, it’s raining _and_ it’s midnight, meaning that no one can actually see him stumble around with a dead guy—a dead guy, Stiles might add, that’s still trying to use Stiles’ trench coat as some sort of macabre Slip ‘N Slide.

He grunts, stepping out of the building’s window and onto the third-floor fire escape. Stiles makes his way down, carefully gripping the body with one hand and the handrail with the other.

Safety first.

He makes it down to the first-floor escape and dumps the vampire over the edge of the rail. The vampire’s impact onto the ground below doesn’t really make a sound because the ambiance of the city—the sirens, traffic, and ever-present heavy bass—all combine to create a vacuum. A constant buzz in the background that consumes most noises. Including the sound of a body falling ten feet onto cracked asphalt.

Beacon Hills can also be considered a vacuum because, at least for everyone that Stiles knows, it fucking _sucks._

Stiles kicks the fire escape’s ladder until it unfolds—yet another noise lost to the vacuum—and hauls himself up and over. He shimmies down the slick surface, gliding with sure hands and landing on even surer feet.

Glancing down the alley, Stiles spots his jeep, and thankfully, no eyewitnesses. He gives himself a breather, and then picks up the vampire and tosses him over his shoulder once more, staggering a little as he does it. Stiles walks as casually as he can to his jeep, unlocks the trunk, and then plops the guy onto the layer of thick plastic sheeting covering the backseat. He rolls the body up like a particularly gruesome burrito, ties each end tightly with cables, and slams the door shut when he’s done. Stiles takes a moment to slick the rain from his eyes and then hops into the cab. Pulling out of the alley, Stiles merges onto the street and takes off.

Stiles makes his way through Beacon Hills’ late-night traffic, watching as the buildings slowly go from “crack-den” to “ew” to “seedy”—the aesthetic of each neighborhood’s buildings is usually a good indication of where you’re at.

And once Stiles hits the “club/goth curious/desperate for sex” district, he knows he’s in vampire territory.

He makes a left on Clarkson Ave. and spots his destination.

The name _Wonderland_ beams in neon red, casting a ghoulish glow onto the large queue of people waiting to get in.

Stiles snorts to himself as he drives past the line, taking in all of the fishnets and leather and—yep, that’s a velvet top hat.

Stiles sighs.

Baby vampires are the worst because they’ve read too much Anne Rice to comprehend how stupid they actually look.

Stiles cuts around to the back of the building, backing up his car in the employee lot and putting her in park.

He jumps out quickly, hoisting up the body—hopefully for the final time—and making his way over to the backdoor.

Stiles pounds on the door, steps back, and waits.

The little hatch on the door slides open and a pair of glowing red eyes peek out.

“Password?” asks a bored British voice.

Stiles grits his teeth, “Fuck you, Reggie. Let me in.”

The eyes stop glowing and the sound of locks turning fills the air, “Oi! Sorry, mate. Didn’t see you over that guy’s arse.”

“Don’t remind me,” Stiles mutters to himself. The door swings inward, and Stiles steps inside the club.

Reggie smiles at Stiles, “Boss has been waiting for you, thought you weren’t gonna show.”

Stiles answers back with a feral grin, “I wonder how you retain such confidence, Reg, given how often your _boss_ is wrong.”

Reggie frowns, taken aback by his comment, but Stiles is already marching past him and into the rooms near the back. The sounds of shitty trance music and writhing bodies surround Stiles, only to fall silent once he travels past the door marked _VIP_. Past this particular door, only the sounds of hungry vampires can be heard. Oh, and moaning.

 _A lot_ of moaning.

Steadying himself, Stiles walks to the end of the hallway. Kicking open the door—god that feels good—Stiles enters and searches the room for Charlie.

It’s hard to make out, what with all of the low-lighting, smoke, and mass of bodies in various stages of undress, but Stiles finally spots him on the throne.

Charlie—or, as he likes to be called, Sir Charles—is seated on his red velvet throne, naked, with some young twink riding his dick.

 _Human_ , Stiles catalogues.

He would be impressed with the kid’s tenacity if he wasn’t so disgusted by the idea of Charlie’s cock. Oh, and all of the sweat flying off of the twink’s body. That’s a little gross, too.

Stiles’ entrance—namely his badass door-kicking schtick—goes largely unnoticed by the room. But, his trudging through the bodies on the floor—geez, are those rubber mats?—while waterlogged and carrying a corpse, makes both the music and the vampires stop.

He pushes himself through the blood orgy until he’s at the steps of Charlie’s stupid fucking chair. The dude bouncing in Charlie’s lap has come to a stop, and Stiles can see red eyes glowing from behind the kid’s mop of dark hair. He can also see a self-satisfied smirk.

He meets that smirk with his own face devoid of all emotion. “Don’t stop on my account.” He looks the wannabe-vampire up and down, “I’m just here to drop something off.”

And then Stiles slams the body onto the steps in front of Charlie. The humans in the room startle, including lap-boy. The vampires in the room are watching curiously, waiting to take their cues from the douche in the glorified Lay-Z-Boy.

Stiles kicks the body so that it’s facing Charlie, and then reaches in his pocket for his switchblade.

A vampire—shit, that’s a cool leather jacket—flashes his fangs at Stiles when he flips open the blade.

Stiles just raises his eyebrows at the guy, crouches next to the body, and cuts the plastic sheeting away from its face. Stiles yanks the vampire’s head up by his hair, showing Charlie that, yes, Stiles killed the right vampire and that, no, he’s not a fucking idiot.

Stiles stands back up, snapping the knife shut and putting it away. He takes out a notepad and pen and starts a list, “Okay, let’s see. That’ll be my flat rate of dealing with you, plus the price of the actual body, plus the damages this sick fuck rendered onto my clients,” he kicks the body harshly, “plus my ‘no-cops’ fee.” Stiles jots everything down and pretends to calculate with his fingers. “Carry the two, add the four—yeah,” he pins a steely gaze on Charlie, “that’ll be $5,000.” He rips off the receipt and smacks it on the corpse’s forehead.

Charlie pushes the twink from his lap and stands. In a blur, he’s in front of Stiles. He’s smiling, but his eyes haven’t lost all of their red tint. “Five grand, is that all?”

“No,” Stiles stares back, defiantly. He points sideways to the vampire who flashed his fangs, “I also want that guy’s jacket.”

Charlie inhales sharply, and then bursts out laughing. Stiles sees Reggie scoot in behind Charlie’s left shoulder.

All of the other vampires have decided to laugh, too.

_For a room full of apex predators, they’re nothing but a bunch of sheep._

It’s almost as if Charlie can hear his thoughts because he stops laughing. Never taking his eyes from Stiles, he says, “Well, pay the man Reggie.”

Reg takes an envelope out of his pocket and passes it to Stiles. He then goes over to the other vampire and rips the jacket off of his back. Stiles tucks the money and his new coat under his armpit and nods at Reg, “Thanks, Reggie.”

Then Stiles turns his back on Charlie, Beacon Hills’ most powerful vampire, and walks back through the crowd. This time, the sea of people automatically parts in his wake.

Stiles reaches the broken door and pauses. He looks back over his shoulder and meets Charlie’s unwavering gaze. Stiles’ eyes turn deadly. “Oh, and Charlie?” The vampires in the room hiss at the nickname.

Stiles smirks, “You owe me one.”

Then he walks out of _Wonderland_ and into the rain.

 

* * *

 

It was a week before Stiles’ trip into _Wonderland_ that the bell over his shop’s door rang and Mr. James and Ms. Diaz entered. Mr. James owned the auto repair shop, and Ms. Diaz ran the little bodega on the corner. Stiles looked up from his seat at the counter—well, it’s really his workshop—and called out a friendly hello to his two favorite old people.

They both gave him a look, and Stiles knew—he knew, right fucking then—that he wasn’t going to like what they had to say.

The bandages at their throats also clued him in.

He listened to each of them, to both of their stories. They had been attacked by a feral vampire, some newbie so fresh its eyes hadn’t even turned orange yet, let alone red. Both survived—thankfully each of them is a patron of Stiles’ shop—but they were worried that the vampire would hurt someone else. Stiles had nodded and told them he’d take care of it. He gave them replacement cartridges for their tasers and walked them out of his store.

Stiles didn’t even wonder why Ms. Diaz and Mr. James didn’t call the police.

No one in this neighborhood called the police.

Stiles fumed for six hours after their visit. He fumed all of the way up until the bell on his door chimed again.

That time, it was Reggie that walked through his door. Apparently, Charlie had a contract for him.

Stiles remembers clearly telling Reg, “You and Charlie both know that _that_ isn’t what I do.”

Reggie had responded, “Yes, but, you see—” and Stiles had cut him off by slamming his hands on the counter.

“Yeah, I see. Charlie’s the bigshot, so he needs the rabid vamp off the street. But, because he’s the overlord or whatever, it’s ultimately his fault in the first place.” Stiles had crossed his arms over his chest and scowled, “So you need no police and someone low enough on the food chain to take care of it so that no one will ask questions, and so that Charlie can make it seem like it isn’t a big deal.” Stiles leaned forward into Reggie’s face. “But it _is_ a big deal—vampires running around gnawing on people. So, you guys need someone people don’t notice but can actually tell their ass from their elbow.” He took a deep breath. “Is that about right?”

Reggie had nodded slowly.

“Fine,” Stiles ground out. “But you tell Charlie that he’s going to owe me.”

Reggie had walked out of Stiles’ shop looking like he’d won some huge battle. Stiles didn’t have the heart to tell him that he’d been planning on killing the feral vampire anyway.

The white bandage at Ms. Diaz’s throat had sealed that fucker’s fate hours before.

 

* * *

  

Stiles makes his way back to his shop, stumbling through the backdoor around one in the morning. He trips over the umbrella stand he _always_ trips over, which causes enough ruckus to wake his cat Ted, who hisses at Stiles before scurrying off to his hidey hole upstairs.

Laughing to himself quietly, he debates over how quickly a landlord would evict him, given the fact that Stiles is always causing some sort of ruckus. Heh.

Stiles can be as loud and as weird as he wants—perks of owning the whole building.

His secondhand gadgets and gizmos shop, _One_ _More_ _Time_ _Around_ , takes up the first floor, and Stiles’ apartment is on the second.

Days like today make him wish that people _respected_ the fact that he finds and fixes up old things, _and_ _that’s_ _it_. That’s what he is—a fixer. Some people take it a step further, like Ms. Diaz and Charlie, and think that he can fix _anything_.

But that’s not what Stiles loves, what he wants.

He just likes figuring out what makes things tick, how to make forgotten items useful again.

Stiles also likes making his own weapons, and his affordable prices and winning smile have made him a sort of staple of the community.

At least, a staple of the small slum he lives in—the one made up entirely of humans.

That statistic is baffling for most, considering that Beacon Hills is the country’s third largest Supe City. Stiles read a statistic from the census two years ago that said for every ten people in Beacon Hills, nine of them were supernaturally flavored. And with a population of almost 800,000, that was a lot of fucking monsters.

Now, Stiles isn’t some sort of speciest, like, c’mon, if you have a problem just fucking _leave_. But he’s seen a lot of scary shit over the years, and most of it has been caused by or related to some supernatural bullshit.

And Stiles doesn’t forget that sort of stuff.

Ever.

Stiles is human in a world where most people aren’t, so he does what he can in order to survive. He also does what he can so that others can survive, too. Whether that’s by hot-wiring old stereos so that they’re compatible with today’s advanced circuitry, or creating a new Wolfsbane-laced mace for the humans that work the corner on Ash St., he doesn’t much have a preference.

Stiles just likes fixing things.

It usually doesn’t involve staking feral vampires.

But, at least for today, it does.

He makes his way upstairs, kicking off his shoes near the door. Stiles throws away his tattered trench coat and slides on his new one.

He looks like Selene from _Underworld_.

Stiles loves old movies. He also loves this jacket.

He shrugs out of the leather and takes out the cash. He splits it into two equal stacks and shoves each into a fresh envelope.

Ms. Diaz and Mr. James will need it. Stiles doesn’t.

Plus, he’s not one to spend blood money. Especially when it comes from the likes of Charlie.

That vampire has always looked at him funny, with _interest_. His red eyes always searching Stiles’ face with a hunger Stiles can’t quite identify. It’s never just lust, either for his blood or his body—it’s always something _more_. And it fucking squicks Stiles out.

Stiles strips out of his wet clothes and hangs them on the bathroom’s towel rack. He rubs himself down with a plushy towel—he’s only got the one—and makes his way into the bedroom. Stiles catapults himself into his California-King, the one luxury item he’s ever allowed himself to buy. He can hear Ted purring softly from his cave next to the radiator. Stiles lies down and tries to fall asleep.

Stiles lays there, hoping that he never has to cash in that favor from Charlie.

He scratches at his bare wrist and snorts. He discovered something new from seeing the douche naked.

It’s funny that even a guy like Charlie would have a mark. Hell, even the rabid piece of shit that Stiles killed had one on his forearm.

That was just another fun little quirk of the world—not only was the majority of the population juiced up on magical mojo, but pretty much everyone has a soulmate mark. Sure, a lot of people don’t actually _find_ their soulmate—statistical probabilities are a bitch, aren’t they?—but it’s a time-honored thing. Soulmates are a blessing, the one person the universe has fated to be your perfect complement. Soulmates are to be sought after and cherished—the ending to ever story destined to be of the _happily_ _ever_ _after_ variety. And Stiles doesn’t have one. He doesn’t have fangs or claws, and he certainly doesn’t have a soulmate mark anywhere on his body. He just has himself, his shop, and his cat. If you ask Stiles, that’s more than enough.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love world-building, so hopefully I don't suck at it!
> 
> Comments, Critiques, & Kudos are all welcome!


	2. Stiles Stilinski & The Blue Raspberry Blast from The Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter that dumps a lot on info on you, but not enough to where you're satisfied.  
> *shrugs*  
> I love cliffhangers.
> 
> I'm planning on posting at least one more chapter this weekend, and the plan going forward is at least one a week!  
> As always, Comments, Critiques, & Kudos are all welcome!

 

 

 

Stiles wakes up like he has for the last two weeks—with a loud gasp and cold sweat dripping down his face. He breathes raggedly, swiping at his sleepy eyes and his slick cheeks with the palms of his hands.

Hands that are still shaking.

Swinging his legs over the edge of his bed, Stiles sits with his head bent low, just waiting for the fit to pass. There’s the soft _thump!_ of a pouncing feline to his left, and Ted’s face peers up at him from under his armpit.

“Meow,” a concerned paw bumps his chest.

Stiles takes a trembling hand and strokes over Ted’s black fur. “I’m alright,” he mumbles. After a couple of minutes his shaking abates.

If that tiny judgmental face is anything to go by, Ted doesn’t believe him. He rubs his fluffy body against Stiles’ stomach and then jumps off the bed, glancing back once before leaving the room.

“Can’t even lie to a cat,” Stiles mutters, “you’re losing your edge, Stilinski.”

 

* * *

 

Stiles waits until noon to take his lunch break. He puts up the _Gone to Lunch, Losers_ sign in the shop window and locks the door. Taking a step outside, Stiles shields his eyes from the sun.

He’s been getting, well—they’re not headaches—but they’re _something._ It’s a sort of pressure that builds in the back of his skull, spreading across his scalp until the backs of his eyes start to throb. It never hurts, though. Rather, it feels like he’s swimming in the ocean, diving farther and farther to the bottom—to the murky floor where the water starts to compress, to tighten, to suffocate _._

It never hurts, he reminds himself, so it’s not important.

It’s too bad that he can’t quite shake the feeling that it _is_.

He plops a pair of sunglasses on his face and pats the inner pocket of his jacket—he’s going to wear this baby until someone rips it off his cooling carcass—feeling the two envelopes he’s stuffed in there. He walks a block to Mr. James’ Auto Repair and makes his way to the old man’s office in the back.

When Mr. James sees the envelope, he tears up and lunges at Stiles, wrapping weathered hands around his back and hugging tightly.

Stiles leaves with a cherry sucker and a promise of free automotive maintenance for his jeep when he needs it.

 

* * *

 

He makes his way back down the street and walks into Ms. Diaz’s bodega. The small robot by the register greets him with a chirped “Hola!” and a wave of his metallic sombrero—Stiles still can’t tell if shit like that is racist or not—and goes back to watching the store.

Stiles can see that Ms. Diaz’s office door is closed, so he makes his way over to the snack aisle. He picks out a bag of Cheetos and waves it in the air absently. “I’m getting my usual, Jorge,” he shouts to the front.

The greeter’s tinny voice calls out, “Sí, el señor Stilinski!”

He travels over to the slushie machines and grabs the biggest cup in the store. He chooses Blue Raspberry Blast, such a perfect complement to Cheeto dust, and starts filling up. The chime over the door beeps—heh, no greeting from Jorge, must be a set of Boots—and Stiles can hear two sets of heavily-soled feet make their way over to him.

His shoulders stiffen slightly, but he doesn’t turn away from his slushie.

“Stiles,” a smug voice says from behind him.

He doesn’t even have to look. “Dick,” he replies.

Stiles can _feel_ the guy’s teeth grind together. He smirks to himself.

There’s a pregnant pause. “It’s Theo, Stilinski. My name is Theo.”

Grinning sharply, Stiles glances over his shoulder. “Huh,” he puts a domed lid on his slush. Stiles turns and faces Theo and his partner. He rips opens a straw and pushes in into the lid. Taking a sip from the electric-blue drink, Stiles leans against the counter behind him. He smacks his lips and shakes out his shoulders at the chill. Stiles pushes his sunglasses down his nose a little, like he’s trying to get a good look at Theo and his stupid all-gray outfit—it’s really more of a fashion disaster than a uniform. Then he pushes his shades back into place. “Huh, my bad. It’s just that you look like such a _Dick_ to me.” He takes another long sip. “You fellas need something?”

His partner, looking nervously between the two, pipes up with: “Yes, Mr. Stilinski, we were wondering if you have any information about some suspicious activity that took place on…” the guy pauses, scrolling through a small tablet, “West Pine St. around twelve in the morning?”

Stiles crosses his ankles. Another long sip. “What kind of suspicious activity?”

Theo fields the question. “We received a tip about some loud noises disturbing the peace in one of the old apartment buildings.” He stares at Stiles. “Know anything about that?”

“Sorry, can’t help you.” His heart remains steady.

At that, Theo gets irritated. “Look, you little—”

Stiles rushes up to him, getting right up in his face—effectively cutting him off and shutting him up. “I said I can’t help you, so take that for what it is—a get the _fuck_ out of here.” He glances over to his partner. “I’m not a snitch or a CI, and both of you are _definitely_ not cops. You have no right to ask anything of me or anyone else in this neighborhood.” He looks back at Theo. “You might want to write that one down because it seems that you still haven’t learned that particular lesson.” He sneers. “I’d be happy to teach it to you again.” Theo’s partner looks alarmed and takes a step back. “Are we clear?” Theo nods once, face grim. “Good,” Stiles takes a drink in front of Theo’s face, “now if you’ll excuse me, this _little human_ has shit to do.” And then he pushes past them and walks to the check-out.

Stiles can hear both goons leave quickly.

“Don’t give me that look, Jorge,” Stiles sighs. “Can you let Maria know that I’m here?”

“Sí, uno momento!” Then the robot’s expression turns blank and distant. Another second passes and with another flourish of his sombrero, Jorge says, “Señora Diaz está viniendo!”

“Gracias mi amigo robótico,” Stiles says through a slurp. He chokes when a hearty “Stiles!” is shouted next to his ear. He whirls around, bending down a little to embrace the open arms of Maria Diaz.

“How are you, mijo? Are you alright? You look tired. Why are you wearing those sunglasses en mi tienda?” She snatches them off his face and smushes his cheeks together with her knobbly fingers. “You look _terrible_. That is it, do not worry about ese vampiro bastardo, you go to your apartment and sleep!” She shakes Stiles’ sunglasses, poking him in the chest with them. “You hear me? Take your diabetes and go to bed!”

Stiles just watches her, a fond smile tugging at his lips. “Maria, how many times do I have to tell you that you’re not the boss of me? Also, you and I both know I’m going to live forever—diabetes is welcome to try and duke it out with my superior Stilinski genetics.” He takes another long drink and then smacks her on the cheek with his chilly blue lips.

She blushes.

“Anyway,” Stiles digs out the money from his jacket pocket and places the envelope in both of her hands, “this is yours. Don’t ask where it came from, just know that it’s for you.” He pauses. “You don’t have to worry about that vampire anymore.”

Her brows knit. “What is this money? How did you—?” She wags a finger at him, “You are a foolish, foolish boy. But you are also a good one.” Her gaze softens. “Thank you, Stiles.”

He blushes.

He slaps the counter, giving Jorge finger guns as he walks backward out of the store. “Hey, I was wondering,” he calls out, “is having Jorge a little racist?”

She squints at him. “I am Latina, you know this. It is no’ racist.”

Stiles hums as his back hits the door. He takes another slurp. “I think it might be since it’s the only model that that salesman at _Black’s_ would sell to you.” And with that, he shrugs dramatically and exits the store.

Maria Diaz watches him leave, softly chuckling to herself. “Maybe, mijo. Maybe.”

 

* * *

 

It’s a week after his run-in with Theo and his partner that Stiles has to deal with another set of Boots. Only this time, it’s a pair that Stiles actually likes.  

It’s 2 o’clock on a Thursday when the old-fashioned bell attached to his store’s door rings. The sound is noticeable because Thursdays are always dead. Always.

Stiles is soldering away at a circuit board, glasses on and focused. He looks up as the bell rings and watches as two Boots walk into his store. He only catches a glimpse of their uniforms over the shelves of electronics and knick knacks.

 _At least these guys are actually police._  

Small comfort.

Stiles relaxes when one of the officers comes into sight. He smiles wide and puts down his pen. Standing up from the counter, Stiles rounds it and holds out his hand. “Parrish!” he shouts.

Parrish gives him a goofy grin and slaps their hands together, “Stiles, it’s good to see you!”

“Good to see me?” Stiles laughs. “You say that like you don’t stop in to check on me twice a month.”

Parrish’s grin turns sheepish. “Well I thought this time _I_ could be the one to introduce _you_ to something new,” the guy waves his hand to the right, motioning at the empty space beside him.

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Are you trying to do some kind of magic trick? I thought you only dabbled in fire.”

The deputy glances to the space he’s still gesturing at and blinks. “I, she—she’s in here somewhere!”

“Who?”

“My new partner!”

Stiles wrinkles his nose, “What happened to Tara? Did she ‘accidentally’ taser Haigh again?”

“No,” Parrish chuckles, “Reid’s on maternity leave. She didn’t even tell me she was pregnant until a couple of weeks ago—the witch wasn’t showing at all—and then she waltzes in with some request forms and says she’ll be seeing me in a few months!” He shakes his head. “That woman drives me crazy!”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles scratches the back of his neck. “So where’s this new partner of yours?”

There’s a crashing sound and then a few scurrying footsteps. Suddenly, a body crashes into his. “Sorry, sorry! I swear I didn’t break anything.” Stiles looks down at the armful of compact Asian woman he’s got fidgeting in his arms. He smiles at her and then lets go. Stiles looks over at Parrish, who’s pinching his nose between two embarrassed fingers.

“I take it you’re Parrish’s new partner on the force,” he tells the lady—merde, she’s beautiful. He holds out a hand to her. “My name’s Stiles. Owner of this fine establishment and fixer of the broken.”

She grabs ahold of his hand and shakes it firmly. Stiles can feel a small shock run through his palm.

“Hi! Hello! It’s so good to meet you, Parrish talks about you all the time!” she gushes, pumping his hand all the while. “Oh right! Yes, I’m his new partner.” She grins at him, still shaking his hand.

Stiles raises his eyebrows at her, waiting.

She gasps and drops his hand. “Oh, I am so sorry, I’m a little nervous!” She blushes, but then straightens out her crisp navy uniform and gives Stiles a small wave. “Right,” she nods decisively, “I’m his new partner, Kira. Kira Yukimura.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a Fired Up! reference in here and I'm weirdly excited about it.
> 
> Also, I was *this* close to naming Ms. Diaz "Rosa." Nine-Nine!
> 
> Also x2: What are your thoughts about the most underrated/under-utilized character on Teen Wolf? Mine, as you will come to learn, is definitely Kira. Thoughts, opinions?


	3. You Know He Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To get the full effect, you must read the chapter title in Chris Tucker's voice. If you don't know who that is, I'm very sorry for your loss.  
> Also, Google it.

 

 

 

_Thursdays are always dead. Always._

Stiles snorts into his whiskey.

There are some cosmic truths that are just a little too accurate for his tastes.

He slugs back his glass, ice cubes clacking against his teeth. Stiles licks his lips and glances out his apartment window. The eerie green glow of the street lamp is flickering again.

Stiles sighs and looks back at his desk, and then at the crime wall behind it. He fingers the police report Parrish had given him earlier, taking out the victim’s photograph hesitantly. He scans over the last page in the folder. _Witness Statements_ it says. There aren’t any names underneath that particular heading.

Figures.

He glances at another case—the one that sits on the edge of his desk.

It’s the one that always sits on his desk, constantly at his peripheral. It’s always there, but it never rests long enough to gather any dust.

Stiles has read that file so many times that even the protective plastic folder has started to wear at the edges.

Rapping his knuckles against the desk, he stands—glass (okay, it’s a chipped coffee mug) in one hand and crime scene photo in the other. Taking another gulp, he rips off a piece of tape and attaches it to the picture.

Then he sticks it next to the photo that’s been hanging there for the past four years. Stiles grabs a ball of yarn from the drawer and unwinds a piece of red string. He tacks it up between the two pictures.

He takes a step back.

And then he pours himself another fucking drink.

 

* * *

 

“Kira, huh? Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Stiles says with a smile. He looks over at Parrish, who’s still pinching his nose in secondhand embarrassment. He glances back at Kira and notices that her cheerful smile has gone down a notch. Actually, make that _a lot_ of notches.

Strike that, she’s turning _green._

“Woah!” Stiles rushes toward her as she sways in place. “Are you feeling alright?” He takes her wrist and feels her pulse. “Parrish, grab my chair!”

“I’m fine—” Kira responds dazedly. “I just, I feel a bit strange.” She plops down into the chair that Parrish rushes over.

“You okay partner?” Jordan looks worried.

“Did you touch anything out of the ordinary when you were crashing into things?” Stiles asks.

“No, I—” She doesn’t look sure. But she _does_ look very green.

“Anything that looks like mace? An amulet? A crystal? A—”

Kira freezes at the mention of a crystal. “Yeah, I picked up a big geode,” she swallows nervously. “It sort of zapped me and made me stumble into some other stuff.” Her eyes go wide. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to mess up your store, it’s just that it looked interesting and it was really pretty and…” Kira trails off, eyes staring over Stiles’ shoulder, out of focus.

“Kira, can you tell me what color the crystal was?” Stiles asks calmly.

“Purple,” she sighs dreamily.

He squeezes Kira’s shoulder. “You’re going to be just fine.” He hurries over to the mini fridge under the counter and grabs a Sprite. He cracks it open and orders Kira to take tiny sips. He goes to the store’s bathroom and wets a rag with cold water. Stiles walks back to Kira, dotting her forehead with the cool cloth.

Kira’s eyes start to refocus after a few minutes. Parrish looks like he’s about to stress-bite his fingernails off. She continues taking slow drinks from the soda and grabs the wet rag from Stiles. “What the hell was that?” Oddly, she doesn’t sound scared or angry. She just seems curious.

A lady after Stiles’ heart.

“Well,” Stiles crouches down next to her seat, “it sounds like you were in my _Be-WERE_ section of the store and didn’t quite read the warning label next to the repelling stones I keep in stock.” Stiles rubs his hands down his thighs, contemplating. “I get them from this witch I know from the Oz district. The purple ones are spelled specifically to repel shifters.” He cocks his head and meets Kira’s riveted gaze. “You’re the first Being that’s ever actually been _attracted_ to one of those—and it made you dizzy to the point of immobility.” He raises an eyebrow. “It’s a side-effect I’ve never seen before, but one my contact warned me about…that’s why I printed out careful instructions and display them next to the stones.”

Kira blushes. “That neon pink sign with the exclamation points?” She looks down at her Sprite. “I might have skimmed over that.”

Stiles blinks slowly. “My contact also said that it only affects Beings with metaphysical magics.” He looks her up and down. “I’d guess kitsune. And from the shock I got from your handshake, I’d say thunder.”

She blinks back at him, stunned. “How did you know that?”

Pressure begins to build in the back of his head. Stiles rolls his neck. He shrugs.

Parrish chimes in with, “Stiles has a knack for filling in the blanks. He’s one of the most intuitive people I’ve ever met.” He leans against the counter and pulls out a thin file. “It’s actually the reason why we’re here.”

Kira nods, standing up from the chair. “Parrish and Reid got this case several months back, before I even joined Beacon Hills’ force. The case has gone cold and the department is no longer putting any resources into solving it.” She takes the folder from her partner. “He said you’d want to take a look at it.”

Parrish nods grimly.

Stiles looks between the two. “And why’s that?”

Jordan flips open the case and taps at the first page. “Because eight months ago a low-level druid was murdered on Washington Avenue. It was early in the morning, no witnesses. The murder site was in an alley next to _Black’s_.” He maintains direct eye contact with Stiles. “From what we could tell, it was a professional hit.”

Stiles swallows. The pressure in his head abates. “Single shot to the back of the head? Long range?”

“Yeah, Stiles,” Jordan says. “It came from a high-power rifle.”

Snatching the file up from the counter, Stiles scans the page.

“Okay,” he looks determinedly at the pair. “What else you got?”

 

* * *

 

The next day Stiles is slightly hungover and his shop is more-than-slightly closed for business.

Stiles spends the day driving around Beacon Hills, walking the crime scene, and staking out various buildings until he finds the right one.

It’s a parking garage across the street that’s been under construction for over a year. Perfect for a trained sniper.

He strolls along each level, taking note that he’s been on the property for nearly three hours and no one has yet to ask him what the hell he’s doing skulking around. There hasn’t been anybody, period.

Swinging his legs while he sits atop the roof of the building, Stiles looks through the file again.

Riley Jenkins. 28. Druid. Worked in a clinic on the outskirts of the shifter side of town. There aren’t any actual witnesses to question, so Stiles decides the guy’s boss will be the next best thing.

 

* * *

 

That snake is _definitely_ staring at him.

Stiles refuses to be unnerved by a creature that literally leaves it’s old piles of skin everywhere—that’s just nasty—so he maintains eye contact with the evil noodle as he continues to ring the little bell sitting on the reception desk.

The teenager holding the python is also giving Stiles looks—like _he’s_ the weird one.

Stiles has seen _Raider’s of the Lost Ark_ , thank you very much—so he _knows_ he isn’t the weirdo in this scenario.

A hand covers Stiles’ on the bell. “Can I help you?”

Turning around, Stiles looks at the man’s white coat. “Are you Dr. Deaton?”

“I am,” the veterinarian replies.

Stiles nods, looking around the waiting room. “My name is Stiles and I’m here to ask you a few questions about one of your former colleagues. It might be best if we go somewhere a little more private.”

The doctor’s face remains impassive. “And why would we need to do that?”

Stiles slaps down a crime scene photo on the counter between them. The image of splattered grey matter is a strange juxtaposition to the small rainbow slinky sitting on the desk next to it. “Because I want to talk to you about Riley Jenkins.”

Deaton’s face turns ashen. “Very well. Follow me.”

Stiles follows the good doctor back into the surgery. A tan guy is already back there, spraying liquid bandage on a dog’s paws. When they walk into the room, the guy gives them a sunny smile. “Hey boss! And…er, other dude!”

Stiles snorts and offers the guy a jaunty salute. “As you were, soldier.”

The guy cocks his head, sniffs—ah, werewolf—and then clicks the heels of his shoes together. “Aye, aye, captain!”

Stiles laughs and holds out his hand. “Stiles.”

The guy snaps off a rubber glove and shakes his hand—yep, definitely a werewolf. “Scott,” he says with a happy grin.

Glancing back at Dr. Deaton, Stiles asks, “Is it alright if he’s in here for this?”

“For what?” Scott looks between them, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

At Deaton’s silent nod, Stiles continues: “I’m here to ask questions about a druid who used to work here. Riley Jenkins.”

“Oh, man!” Scott exclaims. “Riley was freaking murdered, dude!”

Stiles bites his lip, trying not to laugh. “Yeah,” he says, “he was. Did you know him very well?”

Scott nods his head. “Of course. He and Dr. D are my mentors, though he doesn’t—er, didn’t—really work with the animals. He was more of a behind-the-scenes guy—was into medicines and research and stuff. They’re—were?—helping me get my degree so that I can become a vet, too.” He pets the dog on the table. “Uh, is there anything in particular you want to know?”

Stiles whips out his notepad. He clicks open a pen and poises it over the paper. He smirks. “Everything,” he gives Deaton a lingering look. “I want to know everything you know about Druid Riley Jenkins.”

 

* * *

 

It's two in the morning on Saturday when Stiles gets a phone call. He swipes across the flat screen of his device and answers it with a strangled, "What?"

“Stiles, it’s Kira.” There are sirens in the background. “How quickly can you make it downtown?”

Stiles yawns and smacks his alarm clock until the holo kicks on and displays the time. He squints at the projection. “I’m not really in the mood to go clubbing, Deputy Yukimura.”

“Stiles, I need you to listen to me very carefully—there’s been another one, another shooting. Parrish and a few other deputies have convinced the Sheriff to let you assist as a consultant. She’s tired of finding bodies.”

Stiles bolts upright. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

 

* * *

 

Red and blue lights illuminate yet another alleyway in Beacon Hills. Deputies Yukimura, Parrish, and Haigh all stand over Stiles as he inspects the body. “Do we have a name yet?”

Parrish taps at a tablet. “Her prints already came back.”

Stiles looks up when nothing else is said. “Are you practicing your dramatic pauses or…?” He falters at the look on Jordan’s face.

“Fuck!” Haigh yells as he glances at the readout on the screen. “This is gonna be a fucking nightmare.” The vampire stomps away, muttering about dogs.

“I take it I’m going to hate whatever you say next.”

Kira muffles a snort.

Parrish crouches next to Stiles and hands him the tablet. Scanning over the prints and blood work, Stiles takes note that this woman is a werewolf. He double-checks the list of antibodies.

She’s an _alpha_ werewolf.

Not good.

That means their gunman is not only highly skilled—you’d have to be to take out an alpha—but that they’re escalating.

Fuck, indeed.

Then he reads the name that’s attached to the forensics.

_Hale, Laura._

Great. Just, great.

 

* * *

 

It’s four in the morning and Stiles is sitting back at his desk, a third police case added to the pile.

The only difference between this one and the other two is that it’s fresh—hot off the presses while the other two remain ice cold.

Stiles slips out a snapshot of Laura Hale, the newest victim, and takes a long look. She’s beautiful.

She’s supposed to be alive, working for her gazillionaire family and running half the city.

Her Alpha is going to make this hell.

Stiles chuckles darkly.

_It’s not like he isn’t already there._

He pours himself a few fingers of whiskey. Stiles rips off another piece of tape. He snips off another piece of red string. He tacks both of them up next to the other photos.

Stiles salutes his murder wall and mutters, “Na zdrowie!”

Then he takes a long drink.

When he opens his eyes, the faces of Laura Hale, Riley Jenkins, and Noah Stilinski stare back at him.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want all of your conspiracy theories about how this is going to play out. 
> 
> PS. Just know that they're all wrong. MWAHAHAHA!
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr [here](https://thebittahwizard.tumblr.com/)


	4. Boots Come In All Shapes & Sizes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an example of what happens when I have so much to say and no idea how to say it.

 

 

 

A bright white flash goes off, leaving Stiles with colored spots dancing in front of his eyes. He rubs his palms over his eyelids, massaging his corneas into submission. “Christ!” he shouts. “Couldn’t have warned me that the camera was outfitted with a flash equipped with the power of the sun?”

“Sorry!” Kira stammers out, hurrying over to the computer to check out the image. “The station camera doesn’t usually even _have_ a flash, y’know, given that most people’s eyes glow if there is one.”

The funny thing is, Stiles believes her. But one blurry look over at a smug-faced Haigh tells Stiles exactly why his eyes are watering.

Huh.

Guess it’s time to poison Haigh’s blood supply.

Again.

It seems he didn’t get the hint the first time.

Stiles gives the deputy a crazed grin and widens his eyes.

Haigh stops smirking. Stiles can see a small shudder shake the guy’s shoulders.

_Good_.

Turning toward Yukimura, he softens his smile. “It’s alright. Wasn’t your fault.” He blinks away the remaining green spots. His father’s face flashes behind his eyelids. “I had a rough night's sleep.”

She still sounds concerned. “But—”

Stiles waves her off, walks over, and takes a look at the monitor. His own grimacing face, complete with squinty eyes and a double chin, stares back at him. He opens his mouth to say something—fuck, _anything_ —but what exactly can you say about taking the ugliest picture in the _world_. The printer decides for him, whirring to life and quickly spitting out a laminated badge. Deputy Yukimura picks up the badge and a Beacon Hills department issue lanyard—for fuck’s sake it says “tactical” on the band—and looks it over. Then she glances at Stiles and cringes. “Your face is unobstructed, and your eyes are technically open, so the computer deemed it viable and sent the image through.” She looks back at the photo. “We can take another picture if—”

Parrish interrupts her by pushing his way into the crowded bullpen. He rounds his desk and stands in between Stiles and Kira. He grabs a BHPD windbreaker from his seat, and then finally notices the awkwardness in the room. “What?”

Stiles sighs loudly. “It’s fine Deputy Yukimura.” He takes the badge from her and smiles. “We’ve got places to be.”

“Damn straight!” Parrish claps Stiles on the back and jingles the hover cruiser’s keys. He takes a few steps toward the elevator and then looks back. “You guys coming?”

Deputy Yukimura just shakes her head softly and straps what looks to be a laser sword to her utility belt. “We’re coming.”

Stiles stays in step with Kira as they all pile into the lift. He attaches the _tactical_ lanyard to his new consultant badge and loops it over his head. As he looks back up, the breath in his lungs rushes out.

The Captain is standing in the middle of the bullpen, and she’s staring at Stiles.

He can’t help the instinctive sneer that lifts his upper lip.

Then the elevator doors close.

Kira starts to softly hum along with the song playing in the lift. Parrish turns to look at Stiles. “Don’t worry about her. The Captain is the one that green-lit Sheriff Tandy when she requested you for the investigation.”

“So you saw that, huh?” Sometimes Stiles forgets that Parrish is actually a great detective. The guy’s older-brother/mother-hen energy is something of a red-herring.

“Yeah, I saw it. Just keep your head in the case.”

Kira looks like she’s about to burst with curiosity but is too polite to ask what they’re talking about.

“It’d be easier to keep my head in the case if I was actually given the real case files,” Stiles mutters.

“What was that?”

He gives Parrish a forced grin. “I said: _I’ll keep my head in the case, or my name isn’t Stiles!_ "

“Uh-huh.” Parrish side-eyes him, lowering his gaze to Stiles’ chest. Fingering the lanyard, he examines the badge.

“Don’t say it,” Stiles warns.

There’s a beat of silence.

Kira stifles a laugh with a cough.

Stiles scowls.

Parrish whistles long and low. “Nice chins.”

 

* * *

 

Noah Stilinski was elected as the Sheriff of Doe District when Stiles was three.

Beacon Hills has such a large population, and with the majority being a hodgepodge of territorial Supes, the city naturally got sliced and diced into different sections.

Sure, traveling to each district was usually a matter of crossing the street, but you were always aware of the change in atmosphere. Sure, you could live, eat, work, play, fuck, wherever and whomever you wanted, but most Supes lived by their own kind's mores—so what happens on the streets of Beacon Hills is always a tossup. Sometimes it’s easy to understand—werewolves and vampires have been enemies for centuries. Sometimes it isn’t—Witches and Druids may happily coexist on the City Council, but those magical motherfuckers will sabotage one another for a centimeter of political gain.

Beacon Hills has lines dissecting it—lines naked to the eye of a casual observer, or Ford forbid, a tourist—and has had for decades. Five distinct districts for five inherently territorial groups of Supes.

Oz District hosts Witches and Wizards, Druids and Seers—anyone that can hex an ex or sell you some patchouli probably lives or works there.

Bram District is where you can go to get your body molested or your blood drained. Probably both. Vampires have a pretty tight hold on the clubbing scene, so unfortunately, the molesting and the blood draining has been rewritten by most as “sexy” and “dark.” Stiles just calls it Darwinism.

Fae District is pretty self-explanatory. Or, actually, not. Statistically, the Supes that live there aren’t actually Fae, typically classifying as _Other_ on the city’s census. The various species of Fae that actually _do_ live in Beacon Hills have tried a few times to get the district’s name changed, citing that it’s speciest and that it undermines their minority status. Stiles can understand that, but he isn’t quite sure a local government lazy enough to officially lump in "Others" as Fae in the first place is actually going to do anything about changing it.

Che District is by far the largest—a whopping 37% of the city’s population lives there, and 33% of those residents register as shifters. Wolf, cat, bird—hell, lizard—Beacon Hills has the shifter variety pack. Werewolves make up almost half of all shifters, much to the continued annoyance of the Vamps, making them one of the most powerful sects, and their district the swankiest of the five.

Doe District is almost laughable in comparison. It’s a human slum, and where Stiles grew up. On the outskirts of the city, Doe is basically the humans’ way of staying out of everyone else’s way. So out of the way, in fact, that its population was always too low to be given the opportunity to elect a Sheriff or a representative on the City Council like all the other Supe territories.

That is, until 2157, when Stiles’ father was elected as Doe District’s first Sheriff and Councilman Reyes won a seat at the city's Big Boy table.

Noah Stilinski served his district for over a decade, running unopposed and being re-elected every two years like clockwork.

And then he was murdered in an alley in Fae District at 3 am. Alone. Plainclothes. Wearing a bodycam and his service pistol.

Stiles had just turned sixteen.

 

* * *

 

Stiles looks up at the Hale Co. building. And up, and up, and up.

He read in an article that werewolves didn’t like heights, but by the size of this pack’s skyscraper, that’s probably not true. Guess that’s what he gets for reading the _Opinion_ column.

“Does the Hale Alpha know about Laura?”

Kira glances over at Stiles. “Talia knows, and so does the rest of the pack. Both district sheriffs informed them as soon as her identity was confirmed.” She clenches and releases a fist. “I heard it was…unpleasant.”

Stiles gives her a strange look and then snorts. “I’ll bet.”

Parrish jogs over from parking the cruiser. “Ready?”

Deputy Yukimura nods, and they all walk into the building.

 

* * *

 

Stiles was five when he first noticed that there was a difference between the deputies on the police force and the hired punks that patrolled the districts dressed in jumpsuits.

He and his father were getting popsicles, both of them sitting on the curb by the ice cream cart. Stiles had spotted a pair of men dressed in gray uniforms with badges and stun batons. “Are those guys police officers like you dad?” Stiles motioned toward them, cherry sludge running down his arm.

His father watched as the two men cornered a woman, one of them grabbing her arm. “No, Stiles, they aren’t. Hold my popsicle.”

Gripping two icy treats—one cherry, one grape—Stiles sat on the curb and watched as his father approached the men, flashing his badge and inserting himself in between them and the woman. One long, stern lecture and a pointed finger later, the two gray-suits had practically run away.

His dad crossed the street back over to Stiles, encouraging the woman to come and have a popsicle with them. When his dad finally reached him, Stiles was clutching an empty wooden stick and working on the other.

The Sheriff of Doe District had taken one look at Stiles’ purple mouth—that was all of the evidence he needed—and shook his head. “You ate mine, didn’t you?”

Stiles had shrugged. “It was melting.”

The woman—a young hedge witch named Freya—had laughed, a little high-pitched and on edge.

Noah bought three more popsicles.

Later that night, when his father tucked Stiles into bed, he had asked, eyes serious, “Those men? The ones in the gray suits that were harassing Freya?”

Stiles nodded.

“They aren’t police officers. If a person wearing a gray or a brown uniform like that ever corners you, ever tries to make you talk to them or take you somewhere—if someone like those two men today ever makes you uncomfortable, you run. Run to the nearest, most crowded public place and tell an adult.” His dad had sighed. “And when you’re older, if someone like that comes up to you, you stand your ground, because they have no right to your personal business. Do you understand?”

Stiles had nodded again.

“Good. Any BHPD officer wears blue and will show you’re their badge. Remember that, mój syn.” He rubbed a hand over Stiles’ fuzzy head.

“Who are they dad?”

“Private security. Contractors for the big corporations.”

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “They can do that?”

Noah Stilinski had laughed. “Yeah, Stiles. Rich people can do a lot of things.”

“Why would they wanna have fake policemen?”

“That’s a good question, Kumpel.” His eyes turned distant. “Because they prize power over everything else, even if it’s just an illusion.”

“And it’s legal?”

His dad huffed. “Well, it isn’t _illegal_.”

“Sounds dumb.”

“Yeah, Stiles, it really is.” He looked down at his own uniform, a thermos of coffee in his hand for his night shift. “They aren’t anything like real police officers. We have nothing in common.” Noah kissed Stiles’ forehead and stood, walking through the doorway.

“Except the boots.”

His dad turned around. “What was that?”

“Your boots,” Stiles had called out. “They’re the same.”

The Sheriff glanced down at his recently shined black boots. “You’re right.”

Noah Stilinski chuckled as he locked the apartment door behind him.

“Except the boots.”

 

* * *

 

Deputy Parrish flashes his credentials to the receptionist. “BHPD officers Parrish and Yukimura, and consultant Stilinski to see Alpha Hale.”

Kira holds hers up too.

Stiles covers his up further with his coat.

The curly-haired receptionist barely gives them a glance. “Alpha Talia is on the 30th floor.” He gives them a disdainful eyebrow twitch. “She’s expecting you.”

Kira starts walking over to the left, Parrish scurrying to catch up.

Stiles hangs back for a second, resting his arm on the counter and rapping his knuckles.

The guy behind the desk sighs and rolls his head to glare at Stiles.

He just smiles and says, “Nice scarf.” Stiles knocks one more time and then follows after his pair of Boots.

He hears the guy yell, “Nice picture!” as he rounds the corner.

Kira and Parrish are actively not looking at him as they wait in the elevator bay. When a lift arrives, both officers pile into the elevator and Kira presses the button marked _30_. The doors start to close, but Jordan stops them with a quick arm. “Stiles, what are you doing? Get in.”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m claustrophobic. I’ll take the next one.”

Confused, Parrish drops his arm. “There’s only two of us in here.” He looks at his partner. And then back at Stiles. “Hey, wait! You were just in the elevator at the stat—” and then the doors close.

Stiles presses the up-arrow, an available elevator _ding!_ ing to his right. He steps in and waves a hand across the lift’s computer interface. When the screen readily lights up, Stiles says, “Computer, access building directory.”

A soft British accent—why are they always British?—answers: “Building directory acquired.”

His phone blips. He has a new message from Parrish.

_If you’re not on the 30 th floor in 2 minutes I’ll sic Ted on you. You know he likes me more._

Stiles wipes away the message and queues up a reply. “I’ll see you in 10.”

“Sorry?”

The message sends. Stiles looks at the elevator’s screen. “Sorry, not you. Computer, tell me what floor Drug Research and Development is located on.”

“Drug Research and Development is located on floor 21. Would you like me to go to that destination?”

“Yes please, you wonderful box of wire and widgets.”

There’s a pause. “You’re…welcome, sir.”

Button _21_ lights up.

_Here we go._

 

* * *

 

Werewolves are complex creatures. Stiles has always thought so. The first time he talked to one, he was eleven.

Wolves and other shifters rarely traveled into Doe. Hell, most Supes didn’t bother to remember it existed.

That fact is, most Supes don’t recognize a human at first glance because they don’t spend any time around them. They don't know how they move, how they act, how they talk. Hell, they don't know how they smell.

Stiles made his first shifter friend because of it.

He had traveled to Che—they have the best public libraries—and was sitting outside on a bench in the little park next to the building. Stiles was minding his own business, eating a grapple and reading through civilization’s greatest mythologies—Greek, Roman, Egyptian, something called the Bible—really fascinating stuff. He was reading and munching away when a shadow fell over him.

Stiles had looked up to find a werewolf standing next to him. He could always spot them—their movements too predatory, their stances too confident—but he was taken aback for a moment at the man’s dark sunglasses.

“I’ve never smelled anything quite like you before,” the werewolf wondered aloud, voice soft and vaguely British.

Stiles looked over both of his shoulders, giving his armpits subtle sniffs. He stared at the guy staring at him—it was really quite unnerving with the smirk and the whole “blind” thing going on. “You must not get out very much, then.”

The werewolf’s head flinched back minutely.

“You don’t visit Doe very often, huh? Well, it’s okay. Not many werewolves do.” Stiles took another bite.

The man cocked his head, studying Stiles.

“Y’know, lurking over a kid is kind of creepy. So, if you wanna be not-so-creepy you can sit down.”

The guy chuffed. But he sat down.

“Did you know that in Greek mythology, Medusa was a gorgon with deadly snakes for hair? And that if anyone looked at her, they’d turn into stone?”

The man faced him and hummed. “I did know that, yes.”

Stiles nodded, nose still in the book. “But did you also know that she was said to originally be a very beautiful young woman with lotsa suitors. So many admirers that the god of the sea Poseidon raped her in the goddess Athena’s temple? And that Athena punished her by turning her into a monster?”

The werewolf was taken aback. “Well, no, I—”

“Apparently the hero that eventually cuts off her head, Perseus, thought that the punishment was awesome and fair, and a lot of scholars have more or less agreed that this interpretation is correct? Wild.” He ends his questions with a note of awe.

“Why do you say it like that?” the werewolf asked. “Like Perseus and those scholars are missing the point?”

Stiles looks at him, finishing his grapple. “Well, Athena is the goddess of wisdom and courage, strategy and justice. I mean, don’t get me wrong, these gods can be petty dicks, but…Athena is a bit more nuanced than the others. She wouldn’t be vindictive about a woman being raped in her temple. There’s no justice in that.” He stares at the tree gently rustling over their heads. “I’d say that it wasn’t a punishment at all. She gave Medusa the ultimate weapon against a rapist—simply looking at her would turn them into statues. I just…I have this feeling like that’s what really happened.”

The man leaned back against the bench in stunned silence. “You’re very perceptive for a teenager.”

“I’m eleven.”

The werewolf laughed. “Of course you are.”

Stiles reached over and picked up another grapple. “Do you want one?”

He sniffed and plucked the fruit from Stiles’ hand. “Did you pick them from the tree?”

“No comment.”

Another chuckle. “My name is Deuc.”

“Stiles.”

“It’s been an absolute treasure meeting you, dear boy. Would you mind telling me another one of your theories?”

The blind werewolf took a big bite.

“Sure.”

And that’s how Stiles made his first werewolf friend, on a park bench outside the library. He met Deuc there every Wednesday afternoon. They ate grapples and talked about books and history.

They met there every afternoon, that is, until Stiles was sixteen.

A whole lot changed that year.

 

* * *

 

“—it’s just been so horrible! Alpha Talia let everyone off for the day to mourn, but some of us came in anyway to show our support. As you can see, it’s been a bit dead.” The Drug R & D receptionist prattles on.

Stiles looks around the empty labs and raises an eyebrow. “Sure is.”

The lady gasps. “Oh my! I didn’t mean _dead_ as in…what a horrible way to phrase that!”

Stiles just widens his eyes. “About her office?”

The poor, flustered lady twitches. “Right, right! At the end of the hallway, dear!”

“Thank you very much, Mildred. I’ll be out of your hair in a jiffy.”

Walking down the pristine corridor, Stiles makes his way into Laura Hale’s glass office. He plops himself down at her desk and hooks his phone up to the tower. As his decryption software runs, he snaps on a pair of gloves and rummages through her stuff.

He finds a photo of her and what appears to be an ex-girlfriend in the bottom drawer.

Stiles gives it a good look and then puts the photo back.

There’s a holo portrait at the edge of the desk, so Stiles runs a hand over it. A picture of Laura and the rest of her family pops up, fluttering for a second before smoothing out into a seamless timeloop. It’s a moment where her whole family is laughing, heads thrown back and eyes flashing.

Stiles’ phone beeps. He forces his eyes away from the picture and to the computer screen. He types quickly, copying Laura’s hard drive and sending it through his device to his own setup at home.

He’s in and out in less than five minutes.

Stiles makes his way out of the lab, waving goodbye to Mildred and shooting off a quick text to Parrish. He settles into the elevator and slaps the correct button. He hears a loud voice, startling in its suddenness. “…where did he _go?_ ”

He slaps the button again for good measure.

_Great Ford, the timing on these things is never what you want._

As the doors close, Stiles sees a werewolf dressed in an expensive navy suit rush toward the elevator bay. The man makes eye contact, and the last thing Stiles sees before the metal of the doors is a hint of red and a nicely groomed goatee.

 

* * *

 

Stiles makes his way out of the elevator, breezing past the asshole receptionist with the stupidly sharp cheekbones. “It’s 75 degrees out, y’know!” he calls out over his shoulder as he exits the building. He smirks when he hears a low growl.

Walking quickly—but not suspiciously—Stiles makes his way to the side of Hale Co.

_More like “Hale NO.”_

He snickers to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

Stiles shrieks.

He jumps.

He develops a heart murmur.

Stiles spins around. “Deputy Yukimura. How wonderful it is to see you…here.”

“Parrish thought I’d find you here.” She shakes her head. “It seems I’ve been assigned to follow up the case with you while he takes statements.”

“Coolcoolcool,” he pats his pockets. “Nothing like a division of labor, am I right?” He continues walking to the metro stop a block over.

Kira easily keeps pace.

“What did you do?”

Stiles rolls his shoulder. “Nothing.”

She squints. “Uh-huh.” She bumps into him, pace brisk and shoulder unforgiving. “Seriously, what were you doing? Parrish seemed to predict this was going to happen. Called it ‘inevitable.’”

Stiles stops in front of the empty metro terminal. Huh. Guess werewolves don’t really need to use public transport when they all own the latest Tesla. He snorts, thinking about what she had just said. “Me and the truth, we’re destined.” He taps his bare wrist as a joke, but it just makes Kira’s eyes turn a bit sad.

“You like the truth? You could start by telling me what you’re thinking! What your play is! A lead! What the hell you were doing snooping around Hale Co., the family and workplace of the _victim!_ ”

Kira looks like she’s unraveling.

Stiles has a guess as to why.

“You want the truth, _Deputy_ Yukimura? The truth, when it’s so often ugly?”

She nods, hand instinctively resting atop the hilt of her sword.

“That’s really rich coming from you.” Stiles’ eyes turn sharp.

“What—what are you talking about?”

“I just find it funny that you’re asking for the truth, all righteous and indignant, but refuse to give it in return.” He plants himself firmly in front of her. “Actually, it’s not very funny—not funny at all.”

“You’re not making any sense Stiles.”

Stiles laughs. He can’t help it. “Okay, I’ll give you an answer for an answer. Sound fair?”

Kira nods tentatively.

He holds out a hand for her to shake.

When their palms meet, Stiles looks her dead in the eye and says, “Alright, you can go first.”

Without breaking contact, she asks, “What were you doing in Hale Co.?”

“I was going through Laura Hale’s office.” Technically true.

Her shoulders untense. “Now you.”

Stiles lets go of her hand.

“How long have you been one of Hale Co.’s private security agents?”

Kira gulps.

_This oughta be good._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd do a Z-snap, but I'm actually really bad at snapping. 
> 
> Come talk to me on tumblr [here](https://thebittahwizard.tumblr.com/)  
> Oh, and if you have a blog that you'd want me to follow hit me up in the comments!


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